A Spinster, Subornment, and a Strip Club
by volitaire
Summary: When Mark agrees to be Benny's best man, he is forced to question his loyalties and unintentionally instigates two momentous relationships.
1. Popping the Question

"Mark, I bought a _Jaguar_." Benny beams. He shoves me to the window overlooking the street, holds my forehead to the glass, backs away, lets me stare for a second or two, and then asks, "Will you be my best man?"

He then embellishes his non sequitur by clemently squeezing my shoulder and closing the curtains- ultimately denying my view of the trim and luxurious automobile idling curbside in front of our apartment.

"…Huh?"

"-And I was hoping you could convince Roger to be a groomsman? Maybe. Allison won't want him there but I can be fair to you and-"

"Benny? Okay. Whoa. Now one would assume the statement, 'I bought a Jaguar' would precede a question like, 'Wanna go for a ride in it?' Try that again."

"But- Mark- weren't you listening?"

"Yes I was listening, I-"

"Then you'll do it? Great. Allison already booked us a fitting at Marc Jacobs tomorrow afternoon."

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"Where are you going?" Roger asks the next morning in a voice somewhere between jealous and subservient. He's tucked in the windowsill, guitar-on-lap, headphones-on-ears, waiting eagerly for something to come along and take his mind off the fact that he has not been invited on 'Mark and Benny's Grande Excursion Along the Fifth Avenue Thoroughfare!'

Aka 'Buying Mark a Suit.'

Aka 'Cruising Manhattan in Benny's Shameless Pre-Marital Jitters Purchase of a Lifetime.'

"Are you taking his car?" Roger pries. He refuses to remove his headphones, and wrinkles his nose to yell over the music preventing him from hearing my answer. "What?" He asks again, before I've replied.

I am not in the mood for Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky perched in the windowsill. Rather than unplug the cord from the outlet, I strut up to Roger and yank the input wire from the Walkman itself- hopefully damaging something. My solicitous gesture is met with a swift combat-booted kick to my groin, and, "_Ass_! What the hell was that for? I was _listening_ to that in case you couldn't _see_. Are you taking the car?"

…Roger possesses this…_fetish_ for things that give him a rush. Cars being one of them. Pulling myself from the floor, I regain my posture and hiss, "We're going shopping. _Wedding_ shopping. With the _wedding_ planner. For _Benny's wedding_. So I assume we're taking _Benny's_ car."

"If I accused you of being a pushover what would you do?"

I reel back a little. Roger hasn't been too quick on the depreciating banter lately. I often wish I owned a big red stamp- like the kind they use at the library- that said 'HEROIN!' and pound the thing across Roger's forehead every time he tries to pretend he can function as normal. His little jab for humor's sake does not condone the shameful reality of why he's not coming along today. Lately, he's been too far gone to do anything in public. Too smacked out to stand up at a wedding. Literally, I'm not sure if it'd be safe for him to stand. Systems normal all fucked up! He wouldn't last the reception. So I toy with the comeback, 'If I called _you_ a _junkie_ what would you do?' but instead I retort, "Well sor-ry that I'm of some importance to Benny. He really wants his friends to be there. Sometimes you could show a little loyalty or something."

With escalating impatience Roger coos, "I'm letting him live in my apartment, _best friend_." Then he adds, "_And_ your girlfriend- _and_ the Professor, heh, _and_ Gilligan _and_ the fucking Skipper! What more do you want from me?!"

I really want you to rethink the direction of your life. "-Benny was counting on you Roger." Except I'm totally kidding.

"Is this a guilt trip?" He moans tiredly.

"You have to ask?"

If Roger accused me of being a pushover he couldn't be closer to the truth. While I leave Roger home alone with April- _again_- I'm running off to be chauffeured around and tailored in a designer suit. That, by far, is the biggest illogicality I've ever set myself up for. First of all, it tears me up inside to ever leave Roger anywhere anymore. But, I can't be his mother. God _forbid_. And I'm too much of a fucking… oh, I don't know…_hypocrite_ to impose on him. He doesn't like it that I'm _dropping out of school_. Hell, _I_ don't even like it and maybe I ruined my future, but Roger's got two counts against him. He never even _tried_…

Second of all- I guess I show enough responsibility to help plan a wedding. By some obligation or another I _have_ to- I'd want Benny to be a big part of my marriage, but there is an odd dissatisfaction in Benny's engagement to a social butterfly. You see, I got swept up in the monarchy. Since when would I rather go cruising in Benny's Jaguar than sitting at home with my troubled best friend? That almost sounds like a no-brainer: Since Benny bought a Jaguar and since Roger doesn't want to do anything but sit at home and act troubled! You'd think I would've refuted that part a bit more carefully. I think Jaguars are the most disgusting show of pride, greed, and vanity known to capitalism, and sometimes- …well sometimes I wish I were Roger. That's a very rare aspiration, mind you, and life certainly wouldn't be easier, but I'm envious of his ability to act impulsively and opt for the easy way out. When asked about the wedding, Roger promptly folded his invitation into an origami crane and threw it off of the fire escape. "Save me some cake." He yawned at an offended Benny, and then made himself useful by hiding in his room.

"…So that car. It's a series III, right?" He grins brazenly at his swift ability to change the subject. "Do you remember Mike Gambit's Jag in 'The New Avengers'? You think we still have that taped somewhere?"

I will not be thwarted by Roger's curve ball of a pop culture reference. He's compensating for something. Who does he think he is reminiscing at a time like this? Watching corny British police dramas is something we did together when Roger was _entertaining_. Doesn't he see that I'm trying my best to act pretentious?

Then Roger asks quietly, "…So where are you guys going again?"

Oh, I see where this is going…

'So where are you guys going again?' is a versatile question because a.) my answer will determine how long he has to shoot up, enjoy his high, and hide the evidence, and b.) my answer will determine if where I am going will cause me to have more quality time with Benny and not Roger.

'Jealous' is an understatement.

I almost feel guilty.

"To be honest with you, I don't know."

Roger's face is frozen between a pout and a disappointment when Collins barges in. "Good, you're going somewhere today? Who's going? Everyone? I need the house."

"_I'm_ not going anywhere." Roger scoffs as a jab at me.

"Well _can_ you? I really need it quiet. Take April out or something."

Roger laughs sarcastically. "Like _where_?"

Before I can stop myself, I groan, "Oh, I can think of _several_ places you can go." The undertone of that statement hits Roger like a brick.

For some reason Collins stands to Roger's defense and shushes, "_Mark_!"

What I said was very bad indeed. Bad Mark! Now Collins is looking down his nose at me and Roger is lost for words. I reach in my pocket for the 'HEROIN!' stamp and then remember that I don't have one.

A wave of regret and apology and hurt and a lot of other _nice_ things washes over me but instead I glance at my watch and frown, "Ooh. Look at the _time_." Dancing around the topic of heavy drugs is one of my _favorite_ pastimes! By now Roger has turned several shades of red. Before he can explode, I lean forward and say with absolutely no emotion, "I've gotta go. I'm sorry." With a wink and a salute, I turn on my heel and allow Collins to catch up to me on the stairs and slap me on the wrist.

"Mark…" Collins' eyes dart back and forth, deep in thought. "…Leave him alone."

"Ba-_ha_!" I blurt, clamping a hand over my mouth. "_Leave him alone…' That's_ easy enough… Everyone else seems to be good at ignoring him… That's exactly what I'm doing right now! I'm gonna have a grand old time today in the company of someone with a loving wife and a decent set of morals and a _future_. And it's gonna feel _great_. I need to let more people like Benny rub off on me. I'm actually _excited_ about this!"

Collins looks at me sideways. "About what?"

"…Benny's wedding."

"They set a date?"

"…Lord…"

"Are you wedding photographer?"

Why does this question offend me? "I'm _best man_." I suddenly realize Collins has changed the subject with more tact than Roger. Collins _knew_ they set a date. "Look, just- please don't let him leave the house today..."

"Benny?"

"Collins, stop _fucking_ around. You'll be here, won't you?"

"Roger isn't my responsibility."

"Thanks a lot Collins."

He grabs my shoulders before I can storm away and stares me in the eyes. Very prudently he asks, "Mark. What, exactly, do you propose we do about him?"

I have kept myself awake for hours upon hours over this question. My conclusion is always, 'My all-pervading and undying display of loyalty and concern for Roger's health will be the catalyst for his recovery.' How long has he been addicted now? Four years? How long have we been friends? _Six_ years? How long have I tried and failed to make his life better? Our _entire_ friendship? Have I been even a _teensy_ bit successful?

…_No_.

I sigh and snort mordantly, "…When I come home tonight I'll stick him in rehab or something. See you later."

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"Whoo-hoo!" Benny squeals as we hug a turn at a smooth seventy miles per hour. "Isn't she _fabulous_?"

"I don't know anything about cars-" I swallow a rush of adrenaline in my stomach and grin. "But I dare you to take her all the way up to 140." This sin of an automobile is a waste of precious natural resources…Benny's total expenditure on this car could probably feed a third world country for a year…This car is dangerous…This car is really fast…I…really love this car…

"Are you crazy? Do you want us to get arrested?"

"Yes. I don't want to go home. Now do it."

"Mark, if we crash I'll kill you."

"Chicken. You just said Allison wrote you in for the lifetime warranty."

"That doesn't mean we can crash it!"

"We won't crash it. Can I drive?"

"Do you even have a license?"

"I have a bike."

"No, Evil Kinevil, you can't drive."

"Can you go faster?"

"I will push you out of this car."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please? Just a little?"

The car shifts to one hundred. I press my head back against the seat and giggle with glee.

"Roger would be _so_ jealous right now." I scold myself for thinking about Roger. "Did this come with one of those Playmates that always lay on the hood on car magazines?" I scan the backseat just in case.

"No. We can make Allison do it later though."

"_Ew_."

"What?"

"Oh. Heh, did I just say that out loud?"

Benny slows the car as punishment. I stick out my lower lip but he ignores me and concentrates on the road, and the speed limit.

"What is Allison doing today anyway? Generating more cash you can embezzle?"

"What? Hey… Mark. What's that supposed to mean? I don't know what she's doing. Wife things. Calling the florist. Spending unnecessary amounts of money on white lilies." He rolls his eyes.

"Since when," I indicate the platinum-plated clock face in the dashboard, "Do you care how large amounts of money are spent? Why did you buy this thing anyway? Westport dowry? Premature mid-life crisis?"

"Oh I have my reasons. I have a…well, I have a rather enormous surprise for you…well everyone really. But now isn't the time to reveal that. Pretend I never said anything."

"A surprise? Oh…You bought me a Jaguar. You shouldn't have."

"No, no, better." He grins knowingly. "Something _way_ better…"

I frown and try to think of something enormous and surprising, but draw a blank.

"Don't worry your little head over it just yet Marky. In due time, I will reveal all." He takes his hands off the wheel and flourishes them mysteriously. Then he grabs the wheel tightly and snaps, "But no seriously, let's focus on the issue at hand: spending large, unnecessary amounts of Allison's money on your tuxedo. Why do you care what she's doing now anyway?"

"I don't know. Weddings intrigue me. I've never actually been involved in the planning process before. I'm a feeling a little overwhelmed."

"-Any ideas for my bachelor party?" Benny asks tightfistedly.

"Well it's going to have to be really over the top. Raunchy. You know, since-"

"Since _you're_ planning it?"

I put my hand to my chest and smile. "Ouch. No silly. You poor dear. Twenty-four hours after my party all you'll ever have is Muff-"

"Mark, she is going to be my _wife_ and I love _Allison_, if you haven't noticed. I don't appreciate you b-"

"I think I'll collaborate with Maureen on the-"

"Mark. It may be a bachelor party but I still want it to be _tasteful_-"

"…On the decorations, Collins can cook for us…Hm. I want a stripper. Do you think Mo'll let me hire a stripper? Oh right, it's not my party."

"Mark you're rambling. And besides, I think it's supposed to be a surprise. I'm supposed to stumble in shit-faced after the reception and-"

"Geez Benny, have you no respect for the sanctity of a white wedding? Shit-faced? What a slut!"

"That wasn't a serious insult."

"Oh, never…"

"Would you look at that, we're here." Benny forces the brakes and disbands from the vehicle. Wiping at an invisible spot on the immaculate silver hood of his car, he twirls his keys immodestly about his finger and scans the metropolis for a valet. I wince and grow somewhat paranoid- if he flashed his keys like that on 11th street they would've been plucked from his hand and he would've been out of luck, and a car, in a matter of seconds. Instead, a brass-buttoned attendee strides past the passenger window, bows slightly to Benjamin of the Westport Grey's and safely takes the car to some underground vault or whatever.

"Hm." I ponder. "Fancy."

"Oh just wait. Allison is fitting all her bridesmaids haute couture."

"Hot what?"

"They had the fabric imported and they're making customizations down to the very last seam. No bridesmaid's dress will look alike, and each one is worth like, five grand. And they get to keep 'em."

"Holy shit. Do I keep my tux?"

"I haven't asked. Your cufflinks are Ian Flaherty."

"Who?"

"They're 10 karats."

"What did I do to deserve this?"

"I just like watching the look on your face. I used to feel the same way. Now I'm just spoiled." He grins.

"You rich bastard."

"How's your project coming along?"

"Um…"

"Yeah well Mark if you ever make that movie I'll-"

"Heh, yeah. If I ever make that movie… So what about these dresses?"

"You could shop Fifth Avenue everyday if you get it cut and let me market it."

"I suck at changing the subject. Can we change the subject? Where are we going, exactly?"

"Marc Jacobs, remember?"

"That sounds expensive."

"Trust me… We're meeting Brenda here. She's Allison's hire. I don't care for her- she's all for the senseless bouquets of lilies- but she's good at coordinating for the ceremony. Try not to embarrass me."

"Ben-ny! What is that supposed to mean? Pretend I didn't grow up in _Eastchester_ and that my dad wasn't an alderman and that I didn't study at _Brown_? Hide my _total_ lack of sophistication and courtesy around _rich_ people? Ew. Thanks buddy. That shows what you think of me."

"Well for someone who's overly concerned with the fate of Bohemia…"

"I know to suck up if it's good for me."

"Okay then. Now is one of those times."

Fifth Avenue is packed to the gills with tourists weighing the consequences of spending another night at the Best Western, or buying something tulle to show off to their green-eyed Midwestern friends. Either way this is a trap that is going to suck the money from their possession and raise the bar for the economy. I can't even see the other side of the street because of the wall of sightseeing double-deckers and stretch limos. This is my least favorite part of the city, due to the scant amount of locals or sanity, and over excess of billboards, pompous attitudes, and women that are too skinny for a size 00. Needless to say Fifth Avenue is a huge reason Maureen thinks she's huge.

"This place made my girlfriend anorexic. Can we go home now?"

"You don't like it here?"

"It's like Time Square but conceited. I feel like I can't afford to walk on the sidewalk. Are you sure there's no hidden fees with this whole tux thing? Because Allison can go fuck herself if I have to fork over one penny-"

"You know, usually the groomsmen have to pay for their own suits. We're doing you a favor."

"Now I know why Roger blew you off." The thought of Roger gives me a headache.

"Yeah, what is his problem-"

"CHANGING THE SUBJECT NOW- so this Brenda- she's a friend of Allison's?"

Benny looks at me askance. "School. Yeah. What did Roger do now?"

"_Besides_ heroin, or does that answer your question?"

We fall into an uncomfortable yet necessary silence and Benny makes a small grunting noise and sighs. "I'm so sorry Mark…"

"Sorry? For what? He didn't _die_. Yet…"

"Well you sound hopeful! Any reason for the _sarcasm_?"

"How _else_ am I supposed to handle this? If I don't brush it off then he _gets_ to me and I worry so much I want to blow my brains out! You asked me about my film? Half of it's funding went into April's arm! And if I confront him about it he…I just…'It's not my place."

"Not your place? If I were you'd I'd have called the fucking cops by now! He's your best friend isn't he Mark? You wanna do something about this or wait until he OD's?"

"_I_ want to go try on my five-thousand dollar tuxedo."

Although that statement drips with infamy, I don't feel the pang of regret I was expecting.

Is it _really_ so much to ask to have my cake and eat it too?


	2. Shooting the Breeze

"So how'd it go?" Asks Maureen from the fire escape four hours later.

Maybe because I was thrown into an overly disapproving mood this morning, or maybe just because sometimes I'm hopelessly romantic (I _was_ dealing with a wedding…) Maureen's tone disappoints me. Maureen is a girl. She is supposed to be in a sappy, airy uproar. Isn't that what happens when girls and weddings collide? Would it be _so_ hard for her to throw herself down the stairs into my arms and make puppy eyes and ask nit-picky details about Allison's dress and the cost of the caterers and is Benny nervous and did he run through his vows with you and is his heart aflutter? She's _supposed_ to clasp her hands under her chin and bat her eyes at me and imply marriage without exactly implying _our_ relationship specifically, and then I'm supposed to frown and feel diffident for the next few weeks, and ponder a lot, and get cold feet for no rational reason, and have hesitant-yet-fulfilling sex, and listen to her twitter on about how excited she is. Right? I am _not_ supposed to squint, with the sun in my eyes, four stories up and broadcast to a lethargic-sounding Maureen (as well as the entire block) how stylishly my five _thousand_ dollar tuxedo fits.

"It went…great."

"Psh. Well _you_ sound enthused." …That's _ironic_.

I roll my eyes. "Are you home for the night?"

She checks over her shoulder and shrugs. "I guess. Why?"

"I don't know. Want to do something? I'll buy you dinner." I attempt a charismatic grin.

"Ooh..." Maureen winces. "I'm making macaroni and cheese." She points into the loft.

"So?"

"So I'm making macaroni and _cheese_ Mark. I _can't_. I already boiled the noodles."

I really hope she's joking. Although I doubt she is and my heart sinks. "Oh. Okay… Well, do you want to go for a walk later or something? I want to tell you about it."

"A walk?- Collins _stop_ _it_! Find your _own_ cheese packet!" Maureen vanishes from the balcony, angrily shaking a wooden spoon. However, she is giggling and I feel less apprehensive about going upstairs. I honestly thought she was taking her pasta preparation seriously.

Benny dropped me off in front of the building with my tuxedo freshly tailored and zipped in an airtight plastic sleeve. I am afraid to even drape the thing over my arm, lest I cause the whole networking of seams and Allison's graciousness to implode with a single crease. So I dangle it insecurely from the hanger and escort it up the stairs. I hold it defensively behind me as I slide open the door. It is uncanny how three inhabitants of the apartment are absent, and yet the remaining two make enough noise, if not more, to represent all of them.

Collins is delighting in creating mischief with a six-inch packet of liquid cheddar. Maureen is vengefully beating him with her spoon. The lid covering the pot of unattended macaroni rattles and steams over an open flame. I fear for the three-piece swinging from my finger.

I play the sensible middleman and sigh from the doorway, "Collins? Why do you need that?"

"I like wooden spooning!"

…How do you respond to that?

"…Collins, Maureen is trying to cook. Don't make it harder than it already is for her, _please_."

"Mark, you little _bitch_!"

Hell hath no fury like a woman wielding a kitchen utensil.

"My tuxedo- is very- _expensive_!" I warn between smacks on the buttocks. "Lemme hang it up!"

I escape behind our bedroom door just as the smoke alarm screams at Collins for gargling a mouthful of Velveeta. I tuck the suit behind all my other clothes, closest to the mothballs and away from light or sound and out of sight. As far as I'm concerned, that tuxedo doesn't exist until the day of the wedding. I certainly don't have five grand to insure that it will remain nonexistent…

I grab my camera off the bedside table and film the haphazard splatters of orange goop spit onto the kitchen walls, and Maureen, as she toils over a soaking stovetop with a dishtowel. Trying and failing to bend over and mop at the floor, her efforts are met with a stinging pat on the butt cheek with the flat end of the spoon.

"Mark!" She squeals. "Stop filming and beat his ass!"

"Literally? He'll kill me…" To be safe I take a few steps back. "Besides. I don't have a spoon." Collins is grinning with the impudence of a five-year-old and circling- bobbing in and out of the shot- with the prowess of a hungry lion. He ducks and disappears. "I DON'T HAVE A SPOON!!!" I remind him, although this is an ineffectual cry because he was going to pounce regardless. "Maureen, stop wiping stuff and beat his ass-!"

"Sissy!" Collins cuts me off, tackling my legs, unseen from beneath the camera. I am slammed against the breakfast bar and pinned.

"…Mark?"

"…Yes Collins?"

"Put the camera on the counter or I will drown your girlfriend with the rest of this cheese."

"Oh God, _no_!"

"Put it-"

"Can we talk this over?"

"Not at all."

"Oh!" Maureen wails, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead like a damsel in distress. "Mark! Oh God! Don't hurt him!"

"Alright." My muscles tense and I inhale staunchly. "I will do…what I must." The one-armed constriction around my knees lessens, and I swivel and gently drop the camera onto its side, carefully propped next to the fruit bowl. Putting my hands up, I face my doom.

"Thank you." Collins winks. There is a second or two of dead silence between Collins rising to his feet and Collins flinging me by the waist over his shoulder and…beating my ass with Maureen's spoon. The smoke alarm bleeps and whistles incessantly. My screaming for mercy is lost on the gigantic spanking machine, but my kicking, in collaboration with a brutal, linebacker-worthy tackle from the cook manages to knock Collins off of his feet and headfirst onto the couch. He is not totally defeated until after he deposits a soggy, cheesy-lipped kiss on my cheek and Roger swaggers torpidly through the open door.

Roger stumbles into the living room, fastening his hands over his ears, bending exaggeratedly away from the smoke alarm until his hair is almost scraping the floor. Slowly, he looks up and glares at the device so intensely you'd think it would've shit its batteries.

All movement is brought to a halt.

Without saying a _single_ word, Roger commands Maureen to make it stop.

His knees quiver.

Robotically, Maureen flings the dishtowel over her shoulder and marches to the kitchen to guide the lingering heat towards the window.

Collins, however, massages my hair into one mound of cowlick and moaning, finishes distributing any leftover saliva onto my cheek with his tongue. The pierce of the smoke alarm subsides and Collins pushes off my chest and sinks into the cushion beside me.

Casually he crows, "Roger, Maureen made macaroni but you have to smear the noodles on Mark's face if you want any cheese."

My lungs cave in fighting not to laugh, but instead I decide it would be best to turn into a frightened robot and follow my girlfriend's lead to the safety of the kitchen. Lips drawn tight, she dabs at my face with her towel and creases the bridge of her nose, pretending to concentrate and eyeing Roger over my shoulder. She shimmies a little bit closer to me and we both sidestep away from the stove. Collins lolls over the arm of the couch and burps. "So…we know the smoke detector works! Was that loud or was that loud?"

"_It_ was _loud_," Roger's voice pulsates. "_Reee_ally _loud_," He heckles Collins. "It _kind_ of _hurt_," He stamps his foot, "My _EARS_." Collins bugs his eyes out a little and pretends to shy away into the couch cushion.

"…Do…you want macaroni then?"

Roger's ire is obviously ineffective with the collected man balanced on the sofa. Before she can shimmy and sidestep to the safety of our room, Maureen is targeted next. Roger retaliates and locks his swiveling eyes on the kitchen. "And what's _your_ problem? Can't you _fuck_-ing cook?"

"No she can't." Collins and I say in unison, although mine is meant defensively and in good humor. Collins is looking for a fight.

Roger shakes his head and mumbles something that sounds like, "Piece of shit…" and turns his back on her. Before I am conscious of my temper, I have plucked an orange from the fruit bowl and am winding up to chuck the wretched thing at Roger's head. Maureen grabs my wrist for dear life- just in time, wringing the thing from my grip and chuckling quietly. She sets it on the counter and anxiously shakes her head.

"What were you gonna do? You were gonna throw an orange." Her voice is urgent and it is difficult for her to whisper. She's simultaneously trying not to laugh and sound defeated and terrified. She keeps shaking her head until it slumps against my shoulder. I keep my palm- minus the orange- open and hovering near her head, pulp trickling down my wrist. I curl my fingers closed and lower my arm. Roger does not bother to turn around.

"I was gonna throw an orange." I tell Maureen.

"I noticed. Wanna go for a walk and tell me about Benny?"

"Let's go for a walk. I'll tell you about Benny."

"…Good idea."

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Although, for the most part, I go to great lengths to dance and leap and hurdle around the subject of Roger's drug use, Maureen seems to tiptoe around it like it is some rabid mouse. She is willing to get close for an inquisitive look-see, but dare not touch for _obvious_ reasons. She handles it like a piece of girl's room gossip- an impish offense that's just scandalous enough to be whispered about, but is brushed under wraps when the talk gets dodgy.

"Did Roger _do_ it today?" When we are a few blocks away, she creeps up to me and leans into my ear, a breathy and eager whisper.

Did he _do_ it? Like a naughty schoolboy that planted a tack on his teacher's chair.

Was his mission successful? Did I witness the deed? Was it amusing? Did I catch wind of the consequences? Shall I _tattle_?

"You should've seen Brenda's wig. The wedding planner? She looked just like Cleopatra. You would've drooled over her. It was great. It was a shiny blue-black, beaded strands, cut super-geometrically- very dramatic. You should've seen her."

_Yes_, he did it. _Yes_, his mission was successful. _No_, I didn't see it. _Please_, can we change the subject?

"Really." Maureen is thoroughly upset, somewhat peeved, and a smidgen thankful that I've changed the subject. Regardless, she gives me the silent treatment for an entire block in case I change my mind.

I don't.

"She was a very eccentric woman. I think you two would get along. Not- that you're eccentric…but she was just trippy and theatrical. A tad annoying though. Her voice was so shrill and distinctly Brooklyn she sounded more like an air horn than a human being."

"Nice."

There is a wavering of awkward silence.

"…And she kept calling me 'cat.' She called Benny 'Benji'. I loved it. But to me, it was like, 'Well hull-o there cat. You must be little Mark.' Little Mark. 'What's your waist size? No! Don't tell me! Twenty-six? Oh! I thought you'd be at _least_ a thirty. Oy!"

"Oy?"

"Yeah. She was a such a schmooze too: 'Benji, dah-ling, you look fab. Just fab. Allison looks gorgeous too. Have ya seen her dress? Ah-mazing."

"Mark, please don't ever impersonate anyone from Brooklyn ever again."

"It was that bad?"

"Oy."

"Oh."

More silence.

"…I didn't get to see you in the tux."

"You will."

"Later?"

"No, at the wedding- why, do you want me to show you later?"

She bites her lip and nods. I can't stop myself from blushing boastfully. "You should see-it's really amazing what a couple extra grand can do for me. I look like Bond. I promise. Oh my God. It's awesome."

"Hm. Bond…" She grins roguishly. My eyebrow goes up. I reach out to put my arm around her but my palm sticks in the fuzz of her sweater. My eyebrow goes down. GODDAMNIT ROGER-

I take a deep breath and wipe my palm on my pants and exile any secret agent fantasies to the back burner of my brain. Maureen scowls. Now her shoulder smells like citrus.

"…And Benny's tux looks great too. I was afraid to ask what his is costing him."

"Oh, just be nosy. I wanna know."

"Okay. I wanna know too. Well bug him when he gets back tonight."

"We're so bad! Do you think we have to get them something?"

"Something?"

"You know- like a toaster or a bread maker or something."

"I don't think there's anything we can afford that they don't have already."

"Mark! Oh my God. We could buy them a big-ass box of condoms."

"Ha! …Ha… But…you think they'll have _time_ for sex?"

"You think her dad'll let her _have_ sex with him?"

"…They christened the Jaguar yesterday."

"And you _rode_ in it?!"

"…Not in the backseat… Benny told me right after he dropped me off anyway."

"What a punk."

"We should borrow it."

"And have sex in it?"

"Is that an offer?"

--Several blocks and several offers later I have successfully eradicated any thoughts of Roger from either of our minds. I have also subconsciously lead Maureen to the quaint little church on Waverly Place where Allison and Benny are to wed. My navigation catches me off guard, and I stop to take in our surroundings.

Six o'clock Greenwich foot traffic scoots its way around us, and dim, grayish sunbeams filter through the trees lining the street. A flock of pigeons arch up toward the steeple and settle in a choreographed pattern along the buttresses, cooing softly. It is overwhelmingly romantic.

"-Kinda dumpy for them, innit?" Maureen assesses.

"Well, they chose it because Allison sang choir here for six years. And she was an acolyte."

"She's religious?"

I shrug. "She was."

"I never took them as church people."

"Me neither. But I thought you'd like to see it."

"Well, I do." She shields her eyes against the sun that's threatening to hide behind the church.

Suddenly, the church bells begin to swing.

Soundless at first, they shake off their silence, heftily gaining momentum. The huge copper pendulums call steadily over the quiet Greenwich street.

They don't ring out a song, but rather, a benediction, and I smile. They are a wonderful sound. They're like a choir, encompassing the little building with resonation and tone. They are so inspiring I take Maureen's hand.

"This- is one of the reasons I'm a filmmaker." I confess.

"The church bells?"

"Yeah." I agree distantly, unpacking my camera. "You see, this is kind of cool. Look. Look at all the people maneuvering around us."

"So?"

"So we're just standing here listening to the church bells. They think it's rather rude that we're holding up sidewalk traffic. And I bet they think it's a pointless gesture to film a steeple. We're… like an obstruction to the thousands of passing bodies. See? They'd all rather ram impolitely into my shoulder than stop and listen to the beauty of these things all ringing at once. I want to film them because maybe I want to save this sunny moment for a rainy day-" A woman hastily roller-skating towards us does not see me until the last possible second, spinning nearly out of control to avoid bumping my shot. Rather than apologize or curse, she stops to steady herself on a garbage can and frowns up at the steeple.

I smile triumphantly.

"See Maureen? _There's_ the rub! No one else in New York will take the time to savor that sound until they barrel headfirst into an aspiring filmmaker and stop to contemplate what in _hell_ he's filming. 'Is…is he filming the church bells? _Weirdo_. Naw, he can't be. Is there someone on the roof? …Nope… _Weirdo_…Wait, is he _really_ filming those church bells? Why on earth…? Well…they _are_ kinda nice…' You see? I'm doing them a _favor_."

Maureen looks mislaid.

I feel the corners of my huge corny smile droop and fade, and the church bells wind down, prompting me to please quit while I'm ahead.

"…I thought it was neat..."

"It was neat."

"No, no, don't lie. I lost you."

"You didn't. I definitely stopped to listen to the church bells."

"Yes, but would you've if I didn't?"

"Well, yeah Mark, you were showing me Benny's church…"

"Yeah but initially- …nevermind…. I lost you."

"No, you didn't lose me, I promise."

I sigh. "Okay. …So anyway the reception is in a rented-out theater. It's really smart. It's a black box. Maybe you can make a toast…"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Collins is standing underneath the streetlight when we get back still as stone.

I whistle a catcall but he shakes his head firmly and clasps his hands behind his back.

"Did you see Roger?" He sounds a bit worried.

If Collins sounded a bit worried my response comes out in an unintentional _wave_ of worry. "No. Why?"

Collins hops out of the beam of the streetlight and kicks at something on the ground.

"Well…Roger, he…" Collins lets out a shaky sigh. "He thought it was funny to throw the macaroni pan out the window." He swallows a snort. The corners of his lips itch and then he bursts out laughing and kneels beside the pan. "Okay, it _was_ funny… But it was our only clean _pan_ and I was wondering if you've seen him because I'm gonna beat his _ass_. I'm fucking hungry."


	3. Chasing the Dragon

**Author's Note**: I forgot that I wanted to put quotes up here. Oops. Okay so anyway:

"_And so it ends…staining your fingers in the pursuit of photography, and doing justice without mercy on everybody's face in the house."_

_-Wilkie Collins_

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Before retreating into the apartment, I exhale pitifully at the overturned pot of macaroni.

Collins and Maureen- who are both equally responsible for the pot's location on the lawn- simply mount the stairs and leave it be without additional consideration.

I, on the other hand, stare uneasily at the flecks of pasty noodles sticking to the sides of the pan and strewn about the grass like maggots. And... I immediately feel sorry for the poor thing. The thought of it having to lie alone and defenestrated all night, collecting dew, forces me to crouch down next to it and sigh. I don't want to just abandon it here, but I don't want to feel sympathetic for a stainless steel pan, and I certainly don't want Collins and Maureen to turn around and see me squatting in the grass in limbo over the incident. The fate of a perfectly good batch of macaroni was not my problem.

Silently promising it that it would be rescued soon enough, I leave it for Roger.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

April is at the sink, washing dishes, when the three of us reenter. Or at least, she is giving the _impression_ of washing dishes. What she is _actually_ doing is staring into space, absentmindedly sloshing a sponge back and forth over the same spot on the same plate. Steam is swelling from the basin of the sink and blowing back at her face, and all the suds from her soap have dissolved into murky dishwater. Her stature and enthusiasm indicate she's been at it for quite a while.

It's heartbreaking.

Collins takes a seat behind her in a kitchen chair and watches her vegetate. Maureen shoots him an expression that simply pleads, "Oh, change the channel, will you?"

He settles back and Maureen shrugs indignantly and withdraws into our room. All three of us remain unnoticed until a few seconds later when Collins leans forward and squawks, "**HEY** APRIL- YA SEEN ROGER LATELY?!" He doesn't manage to startle her into dropping the plate and looks discouraged when she spins around to glare at him. She wrestles her heart rate back to normal, and then, without delay, Collins loses interest and wanders out of the kitchen before she tries to answer.

She is left glaring at me, humid dishwater drizzling off the surface of the plate and onto her sock.

I sigh and smile.

Her brain registers that it's me about the same time that it registers that her sock is collecting water droplets. She lifts her foot from the floor and daintily shakes it. The front part of her sock flops uselessly and she scowls at it, looking disappointed in both her toes for not sustaining the fabric, and herself.

"Hi Mark." She whispers to the puddle beneath her. "Roger is up-"

"I know where he is." I nod gently.

April sets the plate on the edge of the counter and bends down to peel off her sock. She holds it forward by two fingers and looks offended, but the corners of her eyes crinkle and she chuckles quietly- twice- and then drops the smile and looks to me for encouragement.

I hoff once or twice too, and then we smirk, together, waiting for our internal clocks to signal that our allotted time for interaction is being brought to a standstill. The comedy fades and April's face twists to stone.

She pulls off her other sock and sets it next to its partner and drains the sink.

A pompous-sounding British gentleman announces to my brain, "..._And this has been a moment with Mark and April…Join us next week_…"

I shake the broadcast from my thoughts and wander into my bedroom. Half of me wants to go back out there and help her finish the dishes.

The other half of me wants to wring her neck.

The former maintains a bit more sense and compassion, and reminds the latter that there is a connection between us, linked by Roger and Roger's actions. We can consolidate without needing to speak, and thus I am able to laugh with April at herself. There is a comfort in this connection, because, who _else_ will laugh with April? I have done my good deed for the evening. I doubt her boyfriend takes the time to evaluate her so outwardly, and even if he does, he will not daunt her drugged-up incompetence. April is a walking tragedy, and in all good tragedies there is some sort of redemption to arrange the fatality. Helping her grasp that spacing out at the sink is hardly the stuff of a Shakespeare play, well, that's more than Roger would do for her…

I shake hands with the British announcer and agree to meet again tomorrow.

The latter then trips us up and wrings April's neck anyway for encouraging Roger's actions.

--------------------------------------------------------

Maureen is halfway asleep when I walk in.

Face-in-pillow, she asks, "Are you coming to bed?"

"No."

She lifts the side of her face and squints one eye.

"Really?"

I consent.

"_Magnificent_." She breathes, rolling over and sprawling every limb to the far corners of the mattress. She jambs my pillow under her own and mumbles, "Don't wake me up."

I fake a bow and scoot backwards out the door, pulling it quietly shut. My shoulders droop and I yawn, but before I can succumb to sleep, there is business to be taken care of.

-----------------------------------------------

"...When I was in high school, I used to hide in a bathroom stall to skip class," I tell Roger as I poke my head up onto the roof. "It was a dumb place to skip-" I assure him, "Frustratingly claustrophobic. And sometimes, there was toilet water on the floor that I'd have to stand in for an hour."

Roger looks up from the guitar on his knees.

"…You could see people's feet from the sinks- I don't know who I thought I was kidding- but every time someone came in, I'd cramp myself up even tighter and tuck my shoes away from the light under the door- like that was really going to make me invisible. And you'd think, judging by the only locked stall in a row of empty ones…" I lower my voice, "Someone _always_ managed to know where I was hiding."

"Is that the moral of this story?"

"Yes it is."

I politely close the hatch behind me.

Roger sets his guitar at his feet and stares at it.

I walk over to the ledge of the rooftop and sit down, facing downtown. I start to say, "Do you wanna apologize for anything?" but I stop myself and it comes out, "Do y- …nevermind."

"No- go ahead."

"Nothing."

Roger tips his chair back onto two legs. We both sigh.

"…So what did you do in the bathroom for an hour? Just stand there?"

"Basically."

"For an _hour_?"

"Well- I'd bring a book sometimes. Or my homework. I'd prop my binder on the toilet paper holder."

"And you'd just stand there?"

"It was like a study hall. Except it smelled like ass."

"...I never used the school bathrooms. The urinals were brown. I think kids shit in 'em. One time Joe and I pissed in the soap dispenser and then watched kids wash their hands. It was really funny the first couple of times but then it got boring because…no one washed their hands."

"I wonder why."

Roger sneaks a small smile.

"I liked defacing the stalls. Guys can be really catty. First I'd read all the previous arguments, and then I'd contribute- like, pretending to be someone else. You should've seen the fights I started. There were entire _wars_ in permanent marker. It made just standing there more enjoyable..."

---I am basking in the warm glow of nostalgia, remembering my pathetic existence in the grimy boy's bathroom, feeling both smarmy and badass for cutting class and etching **CUNT** onto a linoleum divider. At that point in my life I'd been stricken with a plague of senioritis and found high school as preposterous and claustrophobic as the stall I hid in to avoid it. College was months away- a panacea for life in general. Providence, the ocean, the workload, the camera, the typewriter, the bachelor's degree, the integrity, the freedom, the adventure, and the guarantee of a future in screenwriting and film was a illimitable _orgasm_. Rhode Island wasn't Scarsdale, and my stupid, inane high school courses were doing nothing but dampening my exhilaration. I didn't care who saw my feet or who marked me absent. I was going to get the hell out of there, I was going to Brown, and I was going to be _successful_, damnit!

_That worked out beautifully_.

The warm glow of nostalgia freezes over.

Here is the portrait of success: A groggy boy skeleton, propping himself up in a rusty metal chair by the neck of his weathered guitar, barely cognizant- fighting hard to bond with the college dropout seated beside him.

_I should make a movie_…

Roger suddenly realizes I have stopped reminiscing and frowns at me. "…And then what?"

It bothers me to _no_ end that he can still pick up on the shift in my train of thought, _even_ though he's barely even clear-headed enough to keep his eyes open. He poses '…And then what?' in the same way someone would compliment the loveliness of a white Persian carpet seconds after they have spilled a gallon of wine all over it.

I stand up and brush off the seat of my pants. "And then I would laugh at people's _stupidity_."

He knows he is in the red, but makes one last attempt to preserve the buoyancy of the conversation. "-The girls used to write about me in their bathroom. The janitor approached me one time and said that he had to stay at least an hour overtime every night cleaning off the 'Roger shrine'. I'm not bullshitting you. How the janitor knew who I was though is beyond me. He might've been a pervert."

Hm... This is the part where I playfully punch Roger on the arm and tell him he is full of himself. But a playful punch on the arm will most likely bruise the thing beyond repair, so, I continue to wallow and make my way towards the hatch.

Roger uses the guitar as a cane and gets to his feet. The jealous/subservient façade makes a dent above his eyebrows and he wobbles a bit before chasing after me.

"Are you mad?"

I might be bipolar, or just have an extremely low tolerance for stupid questions, but the back of my neck burns a furious, warning red.

The saccharine voice of my mother reminds me that, "_There are no stupid questions, dear, only_ _stupid answers_." so I even the score by responding with a question.

"Why would I be mad?" My tone resembles an enthused pet owner coddling his dog.

"I don't know. Why _would_ you be mad?" He is not clueless, but is actually reminding me that I _do_ have a reason to be mad at him.

"_You_ wanna answer that?" I feed the sequence of questions.

Of course he doesn't wanna answer that, and his cheekbones imitate the blush of my neck. I am proud that my eloquence makes him speechless.

He shivers a little bit and gathers the Fender to his chest huffily.

One of three things is about to happen:

1.) He is going to throw me off the roof.

2.) He is going to try and repent.

3.) I am going to change the subject.

As much as I'd love to join the macaroni on the lawn or hear Roger blubber like a born-again Christian, I don't want to seem predictable. Though I would never go as far as making heroin the topic of our roof chats, I don't acquiesce.

Instead, I make a swallowing noise.

…Shoot me now.

Roger stares at me. Hard.

The stare makes me want to throw up, throw a tantrum, and throw _myself_ off the roof. The stare assures me that I am a coward- a useless piece of _chicken shit_. The stare assures me that Roger is very, very certain that he would like a worried, enraged human being as a best friend, and not a piece of chicken shit. The stare assures me that since I am not going to do anything but make a swallowing noise at him and return to the loft, that he will continue to engage in the very thing that reduces me to a cowardly useless piece of chicken shit, and _he's gonna like it_.

Fine. By. Me.

I whirl around and jump down onto the stairs and slam the hatch. I glare up at the closed roof, confident that Roger is continuing to suck the soul out of the closed rooftop.

I gnaw my lip and stand dumbly in the hallway.

Then I punch myself.

First I smack my palm to my forehead, but then I ball my fists and attempt to drive the brainless, spineless asshole out of my body. My feet tangle together in my writhing battle and I trip and hit the wall and scream and punch it and my knuckles throb so I punch it again in frustration. Asshole asshole asshole. "ASSHOLE!"

"Whoa." A dumbfounded female voice snaps me to attention.

The girl that lives in the apartment below ours stands thunderstruck on the staircase. She drops her duffel bag to the floor and looks skittish.

"Sorry!" She whispers. "I wasn't eavesdropping or anything--- I was just on my way to work, and…" She trails off, meaning, 'I was just on my way to work, and in this action could not _possibly_ avoid the screaming ball of fury punching himself in the hallway."

I glare at her, meaning, "Unless you work on the roof, you have no decent explanation for crossing the path of the screaming ball of fury punching himself in the hallway, you nosey whore."

She raises her eyebrows, meaning, "Sorry, your highness."

And I cover my face, meaning, "God, I'm an idiot."

She steps closer. "Are you okay?"

I shut off the voice of my mother. That was a very, very stupid question. I punch myself in the hallway for _fun_!

"Yep."

She doesn't believe me and nods. "Okay. Just checking."

She spins happily on her heel and picks up her duffel bag, swinging the logo towards me. 'The CatScratch Gentlemen's Club and Spirits"

Wow. She literally is a nosey whore.

------------------------------------------------------------------

April is slumped on a kitchen chair, arms draped over the chair back, fast asleep. Her socks are hung carefully on the neck of the faucet, and half of the sink remains clogged with dirty dishes.

I want to cry.

In the next room Maureen is snoring, lazing in the glory of a queen-sized mattress all to herself. Collins is on the couch, facedown, TV Guide prohibiting a line of drool from seeping into the couch arm. The History Channel praises the economic achievements of Adam Smith to the gallon of milk that Collins has left uncapped and unrefridgerated on the coffee table. I waltz into the living room and reclaim the milk. I grab the afghan off of the back of the couch too, and fling it over my shoulder. Both sides of me fight over whether or not to cover April's bare shoulders or smother her with the blanket.

Instead, I slide the milk back into the fridge, thumping it onto the metal rack and raking it across the bars. It sloshes nosily and April stirs. Good. Now she can get up and go to her room. I want the kitchen to myself.

"Mhrm…what time is it?"

"Eleven something-ish."

"Oh."

I flash a plastic smile that screams, "Okay! Get out now, shoo!" and she catches my drift and stands.

She rubs her eyes and remembers, "Oh…Yeah. Mark. You left your camera on the- counter. It might be on, I don't know… you might want to check."

Pushing her chair in, she steadies herself and floats to her room in a haze.

I slam the refrigerator door shut and leap to the breakfast bar, pawing at my poor camera. "Gah!" I yelp at its little body, cradling it like a dying soldier. "No no no, aw _maan_…"

The little red light winks adieu and the battery goes kaput.

"_It might be_ _on_…" I mock April falsetto, wringing the blanket in my hands. "Well then why didn't you turn it _off_, dumbass?"

I know well enough that I would've killed her for touching my camera, but that's beyond the point. I only have one battery left.

Grumbling, I pop open the battery compartment and venture into my room for a new one. Maureen rolls over and I throw the afghan on top of her. She gathers it to her chest protectively.

I make sure that my tuxedo is still (not) existing and then grab the box of spare parts from the floor of the closet. I tuck the tripod under my arm and go back to the peace of the empty kitchen.

I push the placemats and unpaid telephone bills into a mound on the table and set up my workstation, aiming the tripod at a blank spot on the fridge where the alphabet magnets are not arranged into obscenities. Fitting the battery into the slot, I remember why manual cameras kick electronics' ass. I might just sell this thing for a wedding present.

The little red light blips 'hello' and glows intently towards the refrigerator as I lazily rewind the tape. My finger gets sore from holding down the stupid button. Camcorders are for making _home movies_. I am such a hypocrite. Why the hell did I buy this thing?

I take off my glasses and rub my eyes, stopping the tape. I shouldn't be tired yet, but whatever. I think I'm more fed up than anything.

The video projects silently onto the freezer, releasing the earlier events of the day.

Again, Collins' jovial frame dominates the shot, brutally spanking Maureen with the spoon. I walk to the kitchen and hesitate as I am taken hostage, and then the world tips as the camera is set on it's side and deserted. A flurry of arms and legs and swishes of the spoon, and then five minutes of the hallway. Shadows ebb over the floor, and Maureen and I warily ducking behind the counter. Roger, livid and toxic, cursing under his breath. He stamps down the hallway and vanishes around the corner. Ten minutes of vacant hallway. Roger, shirtless, shouting. He passes out of the shot. The back of Collins' shirt blocking the hall, a close-up of the creases. Collins steps forward, hands flying, running his mouth, recklessly trying to explain something. He steps to the right. Hands on his hips, he seethes at Roger, who emerges from the bathroom dangling a burnt piece of foil. He crumples it into a little ball and flicks it at Collins' face, who unsuccessfully deflects it. Collins jeers at him and shakes his head. As he turns around, Roger sucker-punches his collarbone and ducks. Collins lunges for Roger and slams his legs into the wall, pounding his fists into his exposed back. Then as quickly as he'd tackled him, Collins releases him and steps back, eyes wild. Roger yells and points accusingly into my room, but Collins stamps his foot and Roger scampers into the kitchen. Five minutes of vacant hallway and a flood of shadows. Collins, yelling. More empty hallway. Roger, with a shirt on. Empty hallway, empty hallway, April, phone cord stretched taut from somewhere beyond the shot. Roger appears. They kiss. Roger vanishes briefly and appears again, distraught. He hugs April for a good five minutes. Empty hallway, empty hallway, empty hallway, empty hallway, empty hallway…April with dishtowel. The camera jiggles. Empty hallway. Roger with guitar. Empty hallway. The 'low battery' light appears at the bottom corner of the shot. Empty hallway. Collins walks past. Empty hallway. Low battery. Maureen and I. Me. Empty hallway. April. The battery goes dead.

Hm.

So…apparently it would be warranted if I took out my anger on Roger instead of myself.

The things those two can get away with, right under everyone's noses.

...The things you _let_ those two get away with...

I shake my head and retract the tripod, scowling guardedly up at the hole in our roof.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck- I don't care.

It is well after one now and Roger has still not come 'home.' I'm a bit of an insomniac, but he is not, and I think of going up to see why the hell he isn't asleep yet. It's the least I could do-

…Nah…

Instead I tuck the camera under my arm and go to fetch our pan.

The poor thing must be traumatized.


	4. Reaping the Benefits

_Making money is art and working is art and good business is the best art._

_-Andy Warhol_

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

It feels like I'd been sleeping in a pile of mud.

I wake up the next morning around nine and evaluate the condition of my face in the foggy steel of the pan that I'd retrieved.

The arm of my glasses had pressed into the left side of my face, making a crimson indentation the length of my cheekbone. Once I'd drifted off, my head collapsed onto my arms, so the folds of my sleeves were mapped out in craters on my skin. I'd been fortunate enough to evade acne since the eleventh grade, but my pores were screaming bloody murder and had clogged in self-defense. And a thorough shave was in order.

…This is what I get for falling asleep on the kitchen table…

There is a note from Collins slipped under my elbow:

"_Mark,_

_Left for an interview this morning. Benny called and says he wants you to help him move the last of his shit to Allison's today. Call him._

_Coll_"

"Aw." I groan out loud, a little heartbroken. Helping move 'the last of' Benny's shit is like helping pass an era. I don't _want_ to help Benny move into a new family. And I really don't want to help Benny move into a new family while feeling like I've waded through a swamp all night.

I pound my forehead on the table.

When I regain my posture, Roger and April scurry past the doorway, hand-in-hand.

He is whispering and she is clinging to his every word. Eyes closed, he positions her in the doorway between my room and the bathroom, putting his palms on the wall above her shoulders, boxing her in.

He leans in close and she leans in closer.

They basically breathe at each other for an eternity and I find it both unsettling and heartrendingly romantic.

When I finally get bored of their intimacy and begin feel like a voyeur, I spin my chair around and notice that I've left the camera on.

Again.

Although it is not dead yet, I theorize that it would be highly amusing to toss the thing in the pan with a dash of paprika and boil it into the next century. I am weighing the consequences when Maureen enters.

"Mark- you look sad. What's up? Do you need a blowjob or something?"

----Every now and then it's necessary for me to say something like, "I'm happy to have you Maureen."

To which she will mechanically respond, "I'm happy to have you too, Mark." '_Have_' being the operative term.

She _has_ me on a nightly basis. And when she's not having me, she's busying herself with other pursuits. When looked at through a wider scope, she just _owns_ me. I don't appreciate being owned, so I play up our friendship as a thing in itself. I am not _owned_, nonsense! I'm just horny and friendly...

Because of this, Maureen and I have never made love. Unfortunately for me, this issue is just as tactless to talk about with her as it is bothersome to contemplate with myself. Maureen's kinkiness is a league of its own, and I am drawn to it. But a lot of the time I am almost certain that she sees me as her boy toy and nothing else. It's fun to drag little Mark around to public places and sit on his lap and act boisterous. It's fun because she can get as drunk or animated or revved up as she damn well pleases, and I will do nothing but make sure she arrives home in one piece. It is one of my many personality flaws that we both see, but _she_ takes advantage of. And I tuck my tail between my legs and wait until I get what I deserve. And a lot of the time that's sex, so I stick around. But sex and lovemaking are two different activities…or so I've heard. Our only real basis of comparison is Roger and April, and the only conflicting variable between the two relationships is the amount of heroin Maureen and I consume beforehand. Which for us is none, if I am not mistaken. I try very hard not to be a jealous person. Maureen and I were both raised in privileged households with levelheaded parents, and I have learned to appreciate what I have. Roger and April do not have much- save for a damn meaningful time between the sheets.

I _want_ that.

Are we doing something wrong?

…So, I keep my mouth shut and turn a blind eye to the mutual devotion between Roger and April. It must be a rockstar-groupie thing: He generates magnitude and she soaks it in. Whereas whatever Maureen and I are trying to do is an actress-filmmaker thing: She does all the work and I just watch.

"No, that's okay. But thanks for asking."

I _could_ pin her against the wall and stare at her, but that's just not our thing…

----------------------------------------------------------------

"How are you Mark?" Allison asks me tiredly as she swings open the portico doors of her Park Avenue apartment.

"I don't want to give Benny up." I tell her. It comes out a little snappy- probably because I've latched onto the guy and because I think Allison is a callous bitch with a stick up her ass.

"I wouldn't want to either." She coos. But that's the money talking.

I hoist a basket of Benny's laundry from the trunk of my cab, and Allison turns on her heel and sashays down the carpeted lobby foyer, letting the set of big, glass, Victorian doors slam before I can get up the stairs.

So much for good intentions.

I shift the basket onto my hip and try to pry the doors open with my fingers. I lose my grip on the basket, and it falls and dumps onto the sidewalk and down the stairs. I throw my hands up and disgustedly kick the basket after the stray garments. The cabbie peeks out at me from behind the newspaper he is reading and snorts. "All right there, guy?"

"…No!" I growl, scooping a t-shirt hastily back into the basket. The cab driver sighs, shoving his paper against the dashboard and rolling himself from the car like it is the most laborious thing in the world. He doesn't get two feet behind the bumper when Benny comes running down the stairs with a hand up.

"No, no don't help him, I got it." He shoves a handful of bills at the indolent driver and waves him off.

Then he puts his hands on his hips and evaluates the waterfall of his clothing down his porch. "What the hell did you do?" He asks, trying his best to sound gruff and impatient. Instead he just doubles over and plucks a pair of jeans from the sidewalk.

"Your wife-"

"Knows not what she does."

"Whatever you say."

He shakes his jeans at me and steers me into the house. He gathers the rest of his clothes over his arm and follows me inside.

In the lobby there's a clunky, ceramic Greco-Roman vase sitting alone on a little wooden table that seems to have no other purpose in this world than to hold clunky, ceramic Greco-Roman vases in the hallways of Park Avenue lobbies. Some wispy, artificially colored cattail-looking things curve from the belly of the vase, and above that, on the gold-and-white wallpapered wall, hangs a gigantic nineteenth century baroque portrait of a woman whose dress is too big to fit through most doors. The whole setup is very 'generic hotel lobby chic' and I bet the Coffins could stay at a Holiday Inn every night for less than they are paying for the privilege of the keys to this lobby. I wrinkle my nose.

"Do you like it here?"

Benny slides the gold-plated elevator screen open for me and says, "I like the view…" Which pretty much suggests that besides the neighborhood, the view is the only other perk.

Unlike our 11th Street apartment, this apartment actually has an elevator. I don't mind the stairs at the loft, seeing as I only have to walk up five flights and not twenty-three. But by the fifteenth story I am growing impatient at the sluggishness of the elevator.

"Don't you have a doorman or a bellhop or whatever the fuck those people are called that operate elevators?"

"Bellhops don't make elevators go faster Mark, they just push the buttons for you."

"That's so stupid. Is that a sanitary thing? Get the button germs on the bellhop's finger rather than your own? Why do people need a bellhop? Can't they push buttons themselves? It's not hard. I've tried it. I mean…wouldn't you go insane having to stand in an elevator _alllll_ day, riding up and down and up…How _boring_!"

"We do have a bellhop. Somewhere. Maybe he's on break."

At long last we reach Benny's floor. Their entrance door is propped open with a cardboard box, and I walk in sideways and set the empty laundry basket on the floor near a coat rack.

"Shoes, boys." Allison calls from the kitchen, and I frown and ponder how in hell she got up here so fast. I am about to ask her if she used a bellhop when a rather intimidating man rounds the corner and grins hungrily at Benny. He looks like the hybrid of Santa Claus and William Shatner, and if I didn't nearly tumble into the laundry basket as he was lumbering through, I think he would've disregarded me completely and plowed me flat. Confounded, I watch this broad-shouldered monstrosity attack Benny. What should've been a fatherly hug is made into a hostile series of slaps on the back.

"How are you my boy?" The sasquatch roars, echoing through the unfurnished apartment. Benny returns the embrace, but folds his face into the most defiant and comical expression I have ever seen.

"Mister Grey." Is all he says.

Realizing the importance of the sasquatch's presence, I fall to my butt and yank off my shoes.

"This is Mark." Benny introduces, and Mr. Grey twirls around to scrutinize me while my foot is pulled up to my head and I am tugging at the heel of my shoe, shaking my leg like a maniac.

"Hello." I say from beneath my knee.

Mr. Grey seems to see right through me and nods only to acknowledge that Benny had spoken.

"Come on into the kitchen." He signals, and Benny pulls me to my feet and we obey.

The second we enter I desire to throw myself onto the floor in hysterics.

Allison, is _baking_.

Her hair is tied neatly away from her face with a rose-patterned ribbon, and her waist is accented with a crisp white apron that looks more like a fashion staple than a protective covering. A perfect little smudge of flour is swept across Allison's cheek like blush, and she waves at us with an oven mitt that matches the tile. The oven is glowing next to the only window in the kitchen overlooking Central Park. I feel like I've wandered onto the set of Martha Stewart.

Benny looks a little mortified and spurts a smile that tells me that this doesn't happen often, and it's _not_ fortuitous. Allison switches her hip and peeks into the oven, bending neatly at the waist like a Barbie doll and pressing the tips of her fingers to her lips. "Ooh!" She squeaks. "Look, the cookies are done."

…This is her idea of entertaining houseguests…

Her father looks as if she's just won the Nobel Prize and claps his meaty hands together so enthusiastically I'm pretty sure he triggered an earthquake somewhere. I look at Benny and roll my eyes, but he's too busy delighting in his fiancé's ability to place pre-cut slices of dough on a cookie sheet. I want to puke.

There are three chairs at the kitchen table and four people. I am evenly torn between shoving Mr. Grey into the parlor and claiming a seat, or just continuing to stand awkwardly in the doorway.

Allison beckons and I take a step into the kitchen- immediately jolting backwards and grabbing at the sole of my foot, yelping shrilly "Ow whatthe_fuck_!?" and slamming into the wall. I scan the floor for whatever caused the jab of pain and identify the culprit- a Hershey's Kiss. It felt like a goddamned nail, and I dramatically inspect the bottom of my sock, like someone looking to sue. I expect my foot to be bleeding _profusely_, but instead there is nothing but a pinprick of melted chocolate. Stepping on the point of a chocolate dollop is a revolting inconvenience- like getting a paper cut or finding a hair in your food- but when in the presence of your best friend's wealthy father-in-law it is the most offensive occurrence known to man. I feel as stupid as Mr. Grey is looking at me- accusing me of _demolishing_ Allison's Nobel Prize and altogether tarnishing what could've been a nice chat over warm cookies and milk.

Benny sits rigidly in his chair and stares at me with an eyebrow up, trying not breathe and internally contemplating why on earth I'd choose to be a klutz at a time like this. Then, because he is Benny, bursts out laughing and adds, "Yep. This is Mark…"

I lower my foot to the floor and wave.

"Mm. Mark." Mr. Grey grunts.

I wonder… if I lit the end of a stick on fire how amazed he would be…? "Did you bring it?"

"…_It_, sir?"

"The film…did you bring the film you're working on."

"Oh! Oh, uh, no, I'm sorry, I didn't. I didn't know we'd be…needing it."

"Perfectly understandable." Mr. Grey heaves, indicating that he doesn't understand why I didn't bring the film, or the concept of film in itself.

Benny is watching Allison unwrap and press Hershey's Kisses into the tops of the warm batter and quietly adds, "…for CyberArts…" and coughs.

"Oh! Yes, yes _Cyber_Arts!" Mr. Grey realizes hesitantly. "The film for CyberArts."

"…For what." I stutter, my voice three keys lower than normal. My tongue slides to the front of my mouth and I narrow my eyes at Benny- who suddenly looks ten times more beautiful than he has _ever_ looked to me before.

Although both of them continue to speak with each other I am unable to hear either of them, and have accordingly been reduced to silence. I am _very_ dizzy and try to tell Benny "I think…I just shit myself." But my esophagus has gone into shock and soiling myself is hardly gratifying. "For _what_?" I manage again, and every drop of adrenaline I am capable of producing slams into the wall of my stomach. "Say it again Benny- for _what_?"

Benny simply nods.

"You're shitting me." The word 'shit' still finds its way into my vocabulary, but I don't care about impressing anyone anymore.

"I'm not shitting you." Benny promises. He doesn't seem to care about profanity in this house anymore either, but he should, he really should, because the man who is paying for- my brain resists to comprehension- paying for …._CyberArts_…….. is seated three feet away. "Benny, don't say 'shit'." I scold him. And then out of nowhere I wheeze, "CyberArts?!"

"_Yes_!"

"You're not kidding?"

"No Mark. Ask this guy!"

I whirl around. "-CyberArts?"

Mr. Grey cracks his knuckles. "Well, you see Matt-"

"Mark." Benny corrects.

"…Mark, it was a _brilliant_ deal on Benjamin's part… He worked head-to-head with our creditors and got a premium for an…_arts_…grant." Mr. Grey still does not seem to grasp the foundation of this project. "And _I'll_ be covering the rest. But I don't expect it to be anything but successful, and I'm _darn_ proud to have Benny join the family." He nods at his son-in-law. Benny looks on top of the world.

"You're not kidding?" Now I think I am just annoying Mr. Grey, but he puts it aside as reverence.

"No. We expect to find a location around Christmas and get it up and running."

"Up and running." I repeat, and melt internally. "Wow."

Allison looks indifferent and chomps on a cookie. I beam at her and then look at my lap and frown and ask, "And I get to-"

"…Use the studio."

"Use the _stu_dio? Use the studio oh my _God_!"

"And maybe," Benny chuckles, "Just maybe, we can scrounge up enough to get a tape recorder and a microphone for The Hungarians."

I want to faint.

"…Hungarians?" Mr. Grey squints. "Like Europe?"

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Benny offers to take everyone out to celebrate, but to our dismay no one is home. We can only guess where Roger and April are, Collins is still out, and Maureen is nowhere to be found.

"Whooo _party_!" I yell, and leap onto the coffee table. "Benny is fucking amazing! I am _in_ _your_ _debt_ Benjamin Coffin. You want something, I will bring it with fucking bells on."

"Bells, really? …How 'bout you buy me drink somewhere?"

"Sounds great! Except- I don't have any money."

Benny laughs and wanders into his empty bedroom. "_Oh_… I'm gonna miss you guys…"

"You'll live a few blocks away, don't make it sound so hopeless!"

"Yeah, but I love this place."

I scan the living room from the coffee table and then euphorically fall back onto the couch.

"Me too Benny, me too. I don't think I could ever leave."

Benny nods solemnly and sighs. "…Well! Can I buy _you_ a drink then?"

------------------------------------------

Benny drives us to the Life and salvages two barstools, scooting them inconspicuously to an empty corner near the bar. He hails the bartender and keeps his promise.

"You know," He says after a few minutes. "I tried telling Roger about all this."

Somehow this feels like a stab at the artistic connection between Benny and I. "…You told _him_ before me?"

"I said I _tried_ to tell him. I wanted to test the reaction." He grins.

"Hm. What happened?"

"Well, I'm not sure he understood the magnitude. Or the _possibility_, for that matter."

"Oh get real. This is _Roger_ we're talking about. He was probably just _stupefied_. You're basically shoving a recording studio at him and saying, 'Here, knock yourself out."

Benny laughs. "Yes, but… this is, uh, _Roger_ we're talking about…"

I pick up on the entendre. "Whether he was high or not he would've been _damn_ overjoyed that you're…doing this for us."

"Well, there's the problem. He doesn't trust me."

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but he was _never_ all that fond of you."

"Well I _know_ that…" Benny brushes it off. "He doesn't even have to _tolerate_ me if he agrees to this. It's not a matter of his devotion. It's a matter of _trust_."

"You're saying he doesn't believe you?"

"Oh he believes me; he believes I'm going to use CyberArts as some kind of economic machine or some shit…Can you believe that? It's too lucrative, I guess. Too…'commercial', by Roger's standards. He thinks I'm going to exploit you guys by promoting it."

"Well Benny…I can't say that didn't cross my mind."

"I'll use its powers for _good_, Mark, I promise!"

"No, not _that_. _Cyber_Arts. It says it right in the name. Technology and art aren't usually…_associated_… I mean, they _are_…but not-"

"Notice how this is coming from someone who'd rather film with a camera obscura instead of the Kodak his mother bought him. Do you even know how to work your TV?"

"Excuse me, but I am the most tech-savvy person I know. It's called stage-managing."

"Oh please. You couldn't work a computer to save your life."

"I wouldn't trust a computer to save my life. Besides, who are you trying to target with this place- Me and Roger or Silicon Valley?"

"Well…_tourists_, actually."

"Oh Benny you son of a bitch. That's _so_ avant-garde…"

"Oh all right then _Mister Contemporary_, what would you do differently?"

"I wouldn't! I was discontented enough with the art world _before_ you decided to siphon it into a tourist trap!"

"I'm not _trapping_ anyone! I expect this to be the most liberating thing to happen to New York City since Warhol and the Factory!"

"So you're trying to create the new underground? Good luck, buddy. It seems to me you're plopping a big-ass cyber studio somewhere in the city and waiting for the minions to flock."

"Minions?"

"Oh, sorry- In Westport language that would translate to _sell-outs_. Roger might actually be right! This is turning into a display of _propaganda_, not a gallery."

"I'm just trying to do my part."

"For the tourists?"

"…And myself."

"Well now we're getting somewhere! You know, I've had my Schnapps' at the ready here- waiting on _pins and needles_ for something to drink to. And your paycheck really isn't worthy of this alcohol. Come on. Just titillate me, would ya?"

"Have you forgotten, my dear filmmaker, that I have specifically designated- _in the grant_- that you are to be allowed _full use_ of the studio?"

I tilt my glass a little. "…And?"

"As well as Maureen and Roger."

I bring the glass to my lips. "_And_?"

"Whaddaya mean '_and'_?! This is _my_ idea, greedy! You are _guaranteed_ an artisan's position. What more do you want from me? You don't have to sit through an interview, you don't have to go through the tedious application process, no portfolios to show, no recommendations to suck up for, no hidden fees. Just Mr. Grey's cold, hard cash and your camera making sweet, sweet love."

I swiftly set my glass back on its coaster. "That is _too_ easy. I am having major trust issues right about now. I think the shock from this morning wore off and the reality is setting in. This sucks."

"This doesn't _suck_, Mark, hell-ooo! Our dreams are coming _true_!" He snatches my drink from the bar and shoves it at my mouth. "Drink your beer, boy! I'm paying for it! Celebrate! Be merry! Jesus…"

I skeptically take a sip with my pinky up.

"Really Mark. This is one of those chance-of-a-lifetime things that usually only happens to people in the movies. Except…you're making the movies. So…maybe that's all the more reason for rejoicing."

I stare at him over the rim of my glass and snort.

"Half the stuff you say just goes right over my head."

"I'm getting married in a month?"

"Eehh..."

"Oh come on, what can I possibly do to make you proud of me?"

"You could keep living with us."

"Honestly? No thanks."

"Aw, Benny…"

"Sorry dude. There's just no future in starving for art."

"Well, then, could you at least keep pitching in for the rent?"

Benny reaches over to pat me on the shoulder. "Mark, if we make this happen I will pay your rent for the rest of your life."

I laugh and take a huge gulp. "Oh, really now? Can I get that in writing?"

-----------------------------------------------------------

The kitchen table looks pretty darn comfortable by the time I get home and so I take off my glasses and roll my forehead on the cool wood of the tabletop.

"Maur?!" I call, but no one seems to have arrived yet. "Maureen if you're home you should come out here so I can tell you something amazing…"

Suddenly the floor is vibrating and I look up to see Roger at my side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Mark-" He bleats.

I strain to focus on him and mutter, "You're not Maureen." and put my arms over my head and ignore him.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see him sproinging up and down. He grabs the back of my chair and persists.

"Mark." He whines quietly. "Mark, you have to help me."

He lets go of the chair and bounces to the refrigerator and pushes off of it and boings back. Then he twirls in a tight little circle and whimpers.

"Can you go withdraw somewhere else? Thanks."

"Mark-" He makes a breathy gag. "It'znot _funny_."

"Oh, silly Roger! I _know_ it's not! Notice how I'm _not_ _laughing_."

I pull my throbbing head from the table and waltz into my room, slamming the door so powerfully behind me that I laugh in spite of myself.


	5. Burying the Hatchet

_Watch how our star behaves, _

_We'll all roll in our graves and sink with every word,  
while all their backs were turned.  
Meanwhile, our little gem  
is sleeping with sycophants;   
but now and then we're joining in  
tracking mud while bloodletting.  
We've been so proud_.

_-Silversun Pickups_

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Maureen doesn't come home until 3:47 am. I can specify the exact _minute_ because Roger is _still_ stomping around the house, inevitably keeping me awake and leaving me nothing better to do than stare at the clock. For _hours_. And hours.

And hours.

I am laying on my back with my hands over my ears and a headache that's off the Richter when the door opens.

"What is he _doing_?" Maureen hisses.

"Getting revenge." I heave.

"_Revenge_? On _who_? The floorboards?"

"Everybody. More specifically- me."

"You say it so calmly! What did you _do_ to him?"

"Nothing, and that's the problem."

"Well go do something then! Get him to shut up!"

"What do you want me to do? Shove a sock down his throat?"

"I was thinking something a little more practical, but if you think that'll work…"

"No, 'something practical' would be detoxing his system and locking him out of the apartment for the rest of his life."

"Where's Collins?"

"I don't _know_. Why?"

"Because _he'd_ know what to do."

"He'd probably put him out on the fire escape and call it a night."

"Should we try that?"

"…Do you remember the theme song of 'The Flintstones', when Fred put the cat out but then it turned around and jumped back in through the window and threw Fred out and slammed the door and left him hollering for Wilma?"

"It was a saber-toothed tiger."

"What?"

"It wasn't a cat; it was a saber-toothed tiger."

"_Whatever_."

"-So you're saying Roger'll turn on us if we try to lock him outside?"

"He turned on us already!"

Maureen looks mildly affronted but then her stare weakens.

"That's a little harsh by your standards, dontcha think? Try looking on the bright side: He doesn't have six-inch fangs."

I sit up and cross my arms.

"Yeah Maureen. We're _real_ lucky, aren't we?" I pull myself from the bed, stretching my tense muscles. Maureen swipes my glasses from the bedside table and pushes them fixatedly at my chest- like I'm about to charge into battle and I've failed to remember my musket.

I wave her away. "Whatever, I don't need them."

I open the door slowly, expecting a grenade to be pelted at my face in resentment. The only thing that hits me is the glare from the overhead light in the living room, which is painfully brighter than I'd anticipated. Mainly because I'd just spent the past six hours holed up in my bedroom with a pillow over my face.

Cautiously, I shuffle down the hallway and into the combat zone.

Roger has quieted drastically since Maureen's arrival, but he's still spoiling for a fight.

He sits cross-legged on the coffee table with his chin to his chest, gnawing on the knuckle of his index finger and jerking up and down. I notice that over the course of the evening he has folded each individual page of Collins' collection of 'National Geographic' in towards the spine of the magazine. He had creased all the issues from October through February, and discarded the finished product in a pile on the couch. Furthermore, he is emitting a constant, low whine that resembles a dying cat. He stops abruptly when I remain in the doorway, but I don't know if he stops because he's pleased that he finally managed to harass me out of my hiding place, or because I probably look like a sunken-eyed and frazzled zombie that just clawed my way home from the 'Thriller' video. Well, actually, we both look like shit, and I laugh.

"What are you _doing_ out here?" I don't even sound mad. It's 4:00 in the morning. Now it's just funny.

He shudders and bites hard on his finger. _He_ doesn't think this is funny _in the least_.

"Would you mind shutting up?"

He twists around backwards and savagely shoves the folded magazines onto the floor.

I take a step back and run a hand through my hair.

"Hm. …Guess you would…"

He leaps to his feet and suddenly I imagine him with six-inch fangs and yellow eyes. …Which he is very close to having already…

"Roger. Listen to me. Go find April, and drive _her_ up the wall, okay?"

He studies the lines in the palms of his hands and mutters, "I don't know where she is."

"Well- then- go- prowl the streets or something. Dumpster dive. Sweep the sidewalk. Pick up cans. Fight crime. Something productive. _Please_."

"You gotta help me Mark."

"You keep saying that but you _know_ I can't…"

"Can't you? Or _won't_ you?" He inches closer, head hung.

Compulsively, I roll up my sleeves and step back. "Roger- …I'm not your _drug dealer_. I really don't even want you in this _house_ right now, okay? I'm fucking exhausted and I think 'I told you so' would be a little…insensitive, don't you?"

Actually, I think 'I told you so' would be a little _revolutionary_, judging by I've never told him… _anything_. But that's not my job. And it was definitely implied. Right? It makes me wonder why he's not taking his symptoms into his own hands. At the break of any other dawn he'd be in some back alley helping _himself_. And 'helpless' is _not_ a good look for him. Inebriated, fatigued, fuming, vain- those were second nature. But shivering and staggering around the living room? He almost looks as if he's going to be struck down by Zeus if I don't give him a hug! What the hell? This isn't cool… I actually feel some sympathy starting to sneak it's way into my fortress of excuses. Wow. He's _really_ suffering!

…My lack of sleep is fucking with my judgment… Roger doesn't need my help. He needs a _solicitation_, maybe…

I wander over to the couch arm and sit down.

He watches me, moving only his eyes.

_Every time_ I tell myself this is the _last_ _straw_, and _every time_ I get _duped_.

I am _floored_ by his dishonesty and thoroughly _terrified_ at the rate of his decline! And how the Roger I thought I knew distorted and faded over the past two years. -One day he was someone who would map out the _world_ for me, but now here he sits- a reckless druggie that obliterated my trust and made me impatient and uncomfortable to be in the same _room_ with him. He seems wounded that I think so, but at least we're making progress. It looks to me that there could be a hefty amount of sentiment involved in this confrontation, if only I could stop reveling in his defeat. What keeps me from _really_ painting the town red, though is the harsh reality that this time tomorrow, he's not going to request my services. Heroin is hardly a fickle friend, so why would Roger need _my_ help? I will perch on this couch arm and tolerate this because it's a 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours' kind of scenario: If Roger is willing to admit the consequences of his…lifestyle, then I will embrace that- and him- and it will be like I never even changed the subject. And I'll be off the hook.

I look around the living room, trying to form a liaison while we are both in the wrong and equally vulnerable.

He catches my eye and chuckles.

"I think this is the longest you've ever tolerated me since you moved in…"

He may be out of it, but he's on his toes. And he's vocalizing my guilty conscience.

I nod.

I can't argue that or even pretend to be offended.

I shrug. "…Sorry."

Shakily, he bends down and begins straightening the magazines. "Can't say I blame you."

I raise an eyebrow and swallow a smile. This must be the night- …_morning…_- for confessions.

"You know," I muse, "I've decided I hate that word…"

I drop onto my haunches and help him tidy up.

"What word?"

"_Blame_. It's so crude. It makes it seem like it _has_ to be somebody's fault."

Roger stops stacking the magazines and looks up at me, a bit awed, searching my face. I drop the pile I am holding and playfully pull back a little. "Whoa now. I think you got the wrong idea. I'm not saying this is _okay_. I'm just saying it's not entirely your _fault_."

Roger's face reads, 'How in the world is this not _my_ fault?', but he whispers, repentantly, "It helps, Mark..."

…It helps.

Oh that's priceless.

It's his goddamned savior.

Where would he be now if it weren't for good 'ol heroin tagging along behind him and redeeming his every action? It's a very pious entity… They should make it a saint.

…What was I saying about it not being his fault?

I must look devastated. "But it doesn't really." I plead. "And you know that."

"Do I?"

"Oh _come on_! _Who_ are you trying to _fool_ Roger?"

"I don't know."

"Don't give me that shit." I groan. "_You_. That's the answer. You're trying to fool _yourself_. So _stop_ it. You need to cut this out. Is that what you want to hear? Were you waiting for me to say that to you? Do you want my _permission_?"

"I don't know."

I roll my eyes. "Oh my God. _Fuck_ you!"

Roger is practically yawning. "-And now I'm in too deep. Is that what you're gonna say?"

"I am begging you to _open your eyes_."

"…And see _what_? People who give a fuck what I'm doing? Ha! _Nope_."

"Roger-"

"_Maark_…"

He stands rigidly, pulling his sleeves over his hands, hunching his shoulders. He sneers acerbically, "I think I liked it better when you didn't try so hard."

"I think I liked it better when _you_ _tried_." I want to take a swing at him but instead I just shove my hands in my pockets.

He shrugs modestly and stomps to the exit.

"Where are you going?" I snap, snubbed that he's going to take the easy way out.

He grins, dark circles shining from beneath his eyes.

"Oh- I can think of _several_ places I could go…"

I claw at my chest, disdainfully deflecting that cheap personal stab. I hold out my arms, taunting him, bracing myself for more.

"That's all you got? Come on Roger. You were so close to _regretting_ something. You almost made my night- which- you ruined, by the way."

"Glad I could help."

He starts sliding the door closed and my convictions plummet. Again, I'm scared for him. Again, he's getting away. Again, I'm chicken shit.

I jog up to him, flailing. I jam my fingers into the crack and we have a tug-o-war over which way the door should be sliding.

"Nonononono, Roger- Roger? Please. Please stay here. Okay? Just stay home. It's almost morning. The sun's almost up. Come back in here and I'll make you coffee, okay? Please."

"Mark? Let go of the door. Mark? Stop it. Stop. Get your hands- _Go back inside_! Goddamn! Leave me the _fuck_ alone."

"You made it this far. What was it- six, seven hours? Piece of cake, right? Please don't."

He digs his nails into my wrist and I inhale sharply and surrender the door.

"I can't do it Mark." He says.

And then he's gone.


	6. Commencing the Games

_That's not right,  
you can't complain…  
"Everything's gonna be just fine",  
said the pen to the dotted line.  
If memory serves, then mark my words  
this game's called "Catch me if you can…" _

_-Motion City Soundtrack_

------------------------------------------------------------

Collins caps a steaming jasmine tea and sets it between my hands. I blow into the little slit on the top of the container and take a sip.

"Thanks."

"No, thank _you_."

Collins offered to buy me breakfast and play psychiatrist, and yet he's expressing gratitude. "…Thank you for what?"

He smiles, grabbing my tea and dumping some into his empty coffee cup. "-For the tea..."

I watch him saturate it in Splenda and cringe.

"Boy," he marvels. "This is na-sty if you don't season it properly…"

"Collins. It's herbal tea. You're not supposed to season it."

The small amount of tea that he'd salvaged from my cup is squelched underneath five million packets of artificial sugar, creating a granular slush that's disgusting to watch slide into his mouth. I gag, and he protectively covets his saucer, spinning away from me on the diner stool and stingily shielding a tremendous gulp of the stuff.

"You're gross."

"I know you are but what am I?"

"You're gross."

"…Fair enough."

I shovel some hash browns off my plate and riposte thoughtfully, dwelling on the psychological matters at hand. Chewing, I assure Collins, "…So anyway…I have seen friendships destroyed over more trivial things than _heroin abuse_…" I stamp my foot to accompany my complete lack of basis...

"Bull. Shit." Collins clears his throat, heftily patting my shoulder. "Do you know what your problem is Mark? You're a good kid. And pretenses aside, you can hold one _hell_ of a hearty, homegrown _grudge_. Now start showing that he _gets_ to you! Okay? Punch a few pillows and release your inner _prick_!"

I double take and respond with a reluctant eye roll. "…Glad someone can see past the docility."

"You wear it well m'boy. But there comes a time in every man's life when he must face his fears…"

"_Fears_? You've seriously misinterpreted something Coll. Roger's little problem is officially _out of my hands_- no matter how assertive I may or may not get with him. Who are you to judge anyway, Mister 'I-completely-disappear-whenever-I-smell-trouble'…?"

"When the going gets tough-"

"The tough get going." I snap, before he has the liberty to finish his own sentence. I'm not buying into that. It's an inconvenient cruelty to leave the Junkie In Denial alone with the Walking Guilt Trip. "Where'd you manage to hide the last forty-eight hours?"

"Oh, you know. Around…"

"Around, eh?"

"Yeah. Around. Nothing enjoyable. NYU just felt it was _crucial_ to remind me that I am under their contract via _relentless_ badgering and pouty faces. See, now if they would just take the time to _commit_ to me-"

I unfold my napkin and wave it reprovingly at his face. "What do you expect from them Coll? A _trophy_? You're a long-term sub. Beggars can't be choosers."

"Hey." Collins warns, cupping a hand to my mouth. "Remember that _I_ am employed, and you are not. And _believe_ it or not, I happen to _like_ my job. It's the _people_ I can't stand. I am not a beggar, and contractually, I _do_ have the power to choose who I have to deal with on a daily basis… unlike you, unfortunately."

"How so?" I am skeptical before the conversation even takes off.

He stirs his remaining tea with the end of his fork and shifts his shoulders. "_You_ are stuck living in a crackhouse..." He sits back and giggles.

I choke on my hash browns. "Um, you live there too!"

"I try not to." He adds harmlessly. "I'd rather just get into scuffles with my employers. You know Mark? We should secede. Benny had the right idea. We could go move in with him." He expels a mound of pocket change into a nearby ashtray and slaps my knee. "Come on, let's go, right now. We can bring him a Danish."

"As alluring as that sounds, no thank you. I've gotta stay home. I have a fugitive I have to catch," I point to the ashtray, "And _that_ doesn't cover breakfast..."

"It's not my fault you eat like a horse. -And not an inch of fat on ya! What's your secret? Lipo? Bulimia? _Heroin_?" Collins settles into his seat uncomfortably after realizing he's not even close to coaxing a smile. "He just took off, huh?"

"Yeah. He did." I snort. "-_Asshole_!" I stare into my cloudy tea and glower.

"_April_ was back this morning." Collins remarks, provoking me to bring my nose out of the depths of my cup.

"I noticed." I reply flatly. "I was stupid enough to cross-examine her before you showed up. Though, she didn't have much to contribute… Shocking, right? Actually, she asked _me_ if _I_ knew where Roger might've gone. It's _really_ _sweet_ how they look out for each other…" Grumpily I offer Collins the rest of my tea.

"You're not thirsty anymore?"

"Gee. I wonder why ever not!"

"Damnit! They're out of sugar." He flags the waitress.

"…I'm scared for them." I whisper.

"Me too. I'm gonna raise hell if they don't bring me more sugar for this shit."

A messy snort escapes from behind my scowl and then evaporates as quickly as it struck me. "Collins. If you're not going to take this seriously then I'm not going to come to you anymore-"

He sticks his tongue out and recovers, "_You_ seemed very dedicated to blowing him off the last few _years_-"

"Collins-I've been in _college_-"

"-_He_ doesn't try to come to _you_ anymore either! He's given up on guilt. Actually, I think now he's just enjoying himself…-"

I want to smack that self-indulgent pout off Collins' triumphant face. He's right, he knows he's right, and I fucking hate it.

"_Fuck_ you! You weren't there last night. _Believe_ me- he's _not_ 'enjoying himself'…"

I am yelling now. Everyone in the tiny diner tries very hard to pretend like they are not sucked into our argument. But the back of my neck burns red and I scrape my fork along my greasy plate, nibbling off the last particles of salt and pretending to calmly clean the porcelain, unaffected.

Collins smiles queasily at the manager, who has made his presence clear and is staring shrewdly from behind the register. Collins leans close to me, appearing as if he wants to spit in my eye, but instead pulls a ten-dollar bill out of his back pocket and mashes it into his pile of loose change. He stands, wrapping an arm around my shoulders in a brotherly hug- a covert chokehold that, in turn, makes me gnash my teeth into a toady smile. Collins puts two fingers to his forehead and salutes the waitress, signaling our departure. His hug bullies me off of my stool and he shepherds me to the exit, hissing, "Making a spectacle of yourself isn't going to solve _anything_."

"_You_ _started_-" I launch, loud enough to turn several more inquisitive heads. The manager and Collins grouse in unison.

"Mark? _Stop_ _it_. Would you rather we'd discuss this where _Roger_ can overhear?"

I bite my lip and send daggers at the passing tables as Collins shoves me outside. Once the door has jingled closed, I mangle myself from under Collins' arm and turn away from him, arms crossed self-doubtingly over my chest.

"So this is your ploy?" He taunts. "…Brooding?"

"Roger _isn't_ enjoying himself..." I grieve sharply under my breath.

"Let's walk." Collins suggests. I brace myself for his hand on my shoulder again, but unexpectedly he starts off in the opposite direction. He doesn't wait for my approval, leaving me scowling with my back turned. After a beat I wonder if it was a suggestion at all.

"Collins! Wait." I yield, shuffling after his recalcitrant strides, head hung.

"Wow. _Someone_ is _five_." He scoffs, still ahead of me.

The mixture of my embarrassment and outrage makes me feel out of shape, so I don't even try to catch up to him. Winded, I trudge a few steps behind and jab, for a third try, "He's not enjoying himself…!"

Completely unruffled and relatively self-righteous, Collins doesn't even slow his pace. He squints up into the branches of a passing tree and smirks, "Well, then, I doubt I would be either, if I were trapped in a house with the one person who could make me change my mind…"

"Huh?" I bark, out of breath, jogging a bit closer. Trying to fix- or even meditate on- Roger's problems triggered a tightness in my chest that had nothing to do with exercise. Collins warily glances over his shoulder with a 'don't even try to catch up to me' attitude and walks a bit faster.

"Don't you get it Mark?"

"No…I don't get it Collins…"

"He's having too much fun without you there to yank on his leash..."

"Collins- _will you slow down_?"

"I will not. Not if you're going to whine."

"What?"

Collins stops suddenly and I jog right past him. He giggles briefly and once I backtrack he holds my shoulders and asks, "Name something Roger values over anything else in the world."

I frown. "Music."

"Wrong."

"April."

"Wrong."

"_Yes_ April…"

"_Technically_ yes, but not intrinsically. One more guess."

I squint. "Um…_me_?"

"Dingdingding! Yes, _you_ Mark. Above anything _you_. He trusts and admires you most out of anyone-"

"Which is why he's taken up heroin!" I squeal derisively in game-show host pep.

"I'm getting at something, will you give me a second? Which is why he's _hidden_ it from you and which is why he _tested_ you last night. The boy is sharp, I'll give him that. He knew you'd be too afraid to say anything, and now he wanted to see what exactly you'd do if he gave you the chance."

"I think you're confusing psychology with addiction. It definitely didn't happen like that."

"It was a subconscious cry for help if I ever did see one…"

Suddenly I notice that I've stopped brooding. "You _didn't_ see it. You weren't there- _remember_?"

Collins' eyes gore into my soul.

I drop my shoulders. "I _know_ I'm too afraid to say anything, okay? -Don't dwell on it, please… I do that enough for the both of us…"

"Do you understand what I'm trying to say then?"

I smile impishly. "…Didn't you know Coll? Whining about his behavior is an integral part of the Twelve Steps!" Collins cocks his head down at me. "It's a perfectly rational method taught in rehabilitation centers across the country! You've never seen the posters? Step One: Ignore the problem. Step Two: Ignore the Person. Step Three: Lash Out With Unreasonable Foray. Step Five: Beat The Drug Abuser to a Bloody Pulp With the Sliding Door of Your Apartment."

Collins nods. "Of course."

He leans against the trunk of a tree and sighs.

"Is 'Make a Scene at Your Local Diner' in there too?"

"Duh, number nine, closely followed by 'Have An Epiphany', and 'Apologize'."

"And the Twelfth?"

Happily, I pull Collins upright.

"…I'll…figure that one out..."

"I hope so."

----------------------------------------------------

Feeling oddly refreshed but not an ounce bolder, I offer to walk myself home from breakfast while Collins proceeds to carry out more detrimental pursuits.

"Wait- Mark- Why don't you come with me?" Collins asks, eyes flickering.

There's a particularly rousing duel of niceties in my brain before I dwell on the fact that my options for today's activities are either: witness illegal activities via candid anarchism or, witness illegal activities via unabashed substance abuse.

I unpack my camera and follow Collins, easily matching his stride this time.

"Where are we going?"

"Macy's." He replies, matter-of-factly.

I wrinkle my nose and mouth, 'Macy's?' I acknowledge the camera. "May I document-"

"Nope." He snaps.

"Please-?"

"Nope."

"Why-?"

"I'll need a hand." He grins immaturely. "Both of your hands. _Lots_ of hands."

"Are you staging an orgy?"

"Nope."

"Is there gonna be other people?"

"…In principle."

"What?"

He giggles.

"Do you even need my help?"

"Not really. But I'd much rather have you here with me than home crying over Roger with April."

"…_With_ April?"

"That poor little girl gets jipped for most of their smack. He's the breadwinner in the relationship, and so therefore he's entitled to a bigger percentage of the…erm…income… Didn't you know?"

"No…"

"Well of course not. You've made it your life goal to act oblivious."

I get the mental image of Roger, svelte in a business suit, gliding up the front steps of a quaint little bungalow chirping, "April honey, I'm home!" and presenting his sundress-ed girlfriend with a briefcase full of smack. I inhale. "Even if I did properly communicate with Roger I doubt he'd analyze who's accredited to how much heroin…"

"You'd be surprised what you'd learn by talking to Roger."

"Are you saying he _told_ you this?"

"Under the influence of alcohol, possibly yes."

"That doesn't count."

"Brooding again, are we? You're just pissed that I know something you didn't."

I try to knock him off the sidewalk. "What else do you know?"

"Nosey."

"I'm his best friend. I know tons more than you ever will."

"Conceited."

"I AM NOT. You said it yourself- he likes me more than anyone."

"Clingy."

"I can't believe we're fighting over this! He could be ODing right now and we're _laughing_ about it. That's it- I don't want to come with you anymore. I'm going back-"

"Chicken." Collins hooks onto the back of my collar and gags me back in step. "This will be fun and you have to let him cool off. Besides, we're almost there- look innocent!"

We turn off 33rd Street into the nucleus of commercial New York City. Macy's obnoxious red star-, which, to me, is ironically more symbolic of Communist China than capitalist America- trumps the scattering of retailers in its shadow. If it wasn't for fond memories of bundled up Thanksgiving Day parades in Herald Square I'd really, really hate this place.

Collins shares the feeling- I can see it in the little mini-fireballs smoldering behind his pupils.

"…Are you going to set something on fire?"

"No. But I wish." He says dreamily.

"You promise?"

"Maybe later…" He utters distantly, and he sets his jaw and pushes through the doors of Macy's first floor- Cosmetics, Perfumes, Handbags, and other weird shit that a 200+ pound, 6'7" black male in raggedy, baggy street clothing should have no interest in.

"Are we going to rob them?"

"Kinda. Now shut up."

"Is this a pointless misdemeanor or is there substance to this?"

"I have a bone to pick with Miss Macy, and she had it coming. Pick a floor, any floor, between one and five."

"Um- three…?"

"Excellent choice, excellent choice..." We mount the rickety wooden escalator, and before grabbing the handrail Collins snatches an obnoxiously and unnecessarily gigantic woman's beach tote from a display. "Third floor, women's dress clothing, casual attire, men's suits, coats, shoes, and maternity."

I watch our reflections in the passing escalator mirrors and ask his, "…Care to elaborate on the bone you're picking?"

We switch escalators and I scan the sales floor, anxious. Collins elbows me to cut it out.

"They've got me on three separate counts of burglary. Which is a dysphemism for 'shoplifting.' The Rent-A-Cops had me kindly and permanently removed from the premises. If I'm seen I face eight months county and three months parole. How do ya like them apples?"

I wrinkle my nose. "…Uh—I don't like…apples?"

"I said it once and I'll say it again. You're a good kid Mark, a good kid."

"What- did you steal?"

He looks vacant. "Uhh…..the couch."

"The couch!" I yelp.

"You'd be surprised what you'd learn by talking to Roger…"

"You and Roger stole our couch?"

"Well, actually, the guys supervising the receiving door on the 7th Avenue side stole our couch. All Roger did was dig a claim ticket out of a dumpster and whine that his sofa was never delivered. I nodded and looked dissatisfied."

"Why did you never tell me?!"

"Because you were a starry-eyed college student with a stick up your ass. And now we're going to do something _cooler_ and we're not going to tell _Roger_ because he's a heroin addict. Got it? Now then, we are approaching destination- do as I say, not as I do." He hands me the beach tote. " See that pregnant mannequin over yonder?"

I nod.

"If you would please Mark, dismantle her."

I stare blankly into the beach tote. "Do what to her?"

"Take her apart if you can. But not noticeably. And put her hands in that bag you're holding."

"Put her what where?"

Collins sighs disappointedly and slings the bag over his shoulder, sauntering over to the dummy and turning his back to her. He checks his watch, unscrewing her appendages behind his back. With a 'thump', he drops both of her hands into the beach bag and moves on to a plastic baby in a nearby stroller, leaving it's mother helpless- resting two stumps on her expectant belly, unsightly screws protruding from her synthetic wrists. "I _told_ you I'd need a hand. _Lots_ of hands." He tosses the bag to me. "Take no prisoners."

Halfway through motherhood lingerie Collins disappears, but in his place a stern, gray-suited floor manager paces, suspicious, to and fro through the rows of bras. I shove my 'handful' of a beach bag under a dressing room stall and snatch an enormous pair of frilly red panties off a rack.

Doggedly I bound up to the suspicious manager, signaling him close to my ear and asking, "Uhh…Hey, buddy. You know anything about pregnant chicks?"

He shrugs indiscreetly, running a hand over his thickly-gelled hair. He fingers the walkie-talkie on his hip and steps closer. Now that I have established him as my 'buddy' he is not disinclined to assist. "Not really." He grumbles. "But, what do you need to know man?"

I roll my eyes. "Well…my girlfriend's like…suuuper pregnant- like nine months or something, you know?- and she's still _damn_ sexy. But- she gets this discharge shit all the time and I was wondering if you think these little lacey things will hold up against it-"

He twirls his nametag ditheringly and looks dumbfounded.

I stretch the elastic in his face and pry, "…Or what about… when her water breaks…?"

He opens and closes his mouth several times, wrinkling his eyebrows and shrugging sadly. "I-I, um…" He drops his hopes for a fraternity and waves the panties away from his face. "I honesty don't know, um, _sir_…"

I lower them, discouraged, and sulk, "Well…then…do you think you could go find someone who _would_ know?" I turn my face away from him and squint one eye at a sign over the changing rooms gleefully blaring, "THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT!"

"I guess so…" He mumbles, thoroughly torn between absolute disgust and his managerial duties. Gullible, fawn-on, twenty-somethings like him make me _so_ glad I bailed Brown when I did…

He scurries off blushing to relay my dilemma to a higher power and I resume unscrewing in fast-forward. When I am quite certain that I have nixed every last hand, a distracted 'Pssst!' from Collins near the escalator grabs my attention.

"Good work. Hand me the bag and go wait on 34th. You can film if you want to now. Thanks Mark. I owe you one."

Feeling extremely paranoid and excited all the same, I pass off the tote to Collins and ride the escalator all the way back to the ground floor, reclining casually against the railing and looking totally naïve, all the way down.

I hold my breath while walking past the two security guards posted at the exit. I must be in a good half-hour of security tape and I'd had a face-to-face chat with a supervisor. Nonetheless, they know and suspect nothing, and sincerely thank me for shopping at Macy's and I assure them I'll be back soon. Then I bite back a little bit of vomit, flip on the camera and sit on the curb by a mailbox.

Nothing happens for a good, long, excruciating while. I don't fear for myself, because no one seems to even notice me crouched on the curb and a few strangers even toss me change. But I am practically pissing my pants over Collins, who could be arrested or worse as far as I know. I stare hard through the tinted entryway but see only fusty old women saturating themselves in Chanel No. 5 and the occasional snobbish princess dragging her frock-coated bank vault of a boyfriend through the sea of perfumes. I am abruptly reminded of Allison and I hope neither Collins nor myself spend the wedding behind bars, no matter how much liquid must Benny buys her. I am preoccupied with gagging at the thought when people begin craning their heads to read the infamous, '**THE** **WORLD'S** **LARGEST** **STORE**- **MACY'S**!' boast that covers the fourth and fifth floors of the department store.

Two windows beneath the sign slide open and a series of duct-taped bedsheets are thrown out the windows and secured. An automatic teller machine and a Sunglass Hut are smothered in the giant billowing sign that, now, blown to it's full potential in the breeze reads, "**STOP** **IN** **THIS** **WEEK FOR THE FIVE-FINGERED DISCOUNT!**"

Seconds later, a chain of mannequin hands trails its way down to the sidewalk and dangles floppily in all its ironic brilliance.

There's a great pang in the back of my mind, flanked by concern for Collins holding down the fort up there, and Roger…wherever he is right now...

All I know is that I really, _really_ wish he could be here to see this.

Torn and absolutely engulfed, there is nothing left to do but laugh and film it.


End file.
